I was being talked at by a young, serious writer who took umbrage to my frivolous work.
“I know you have it in you.” He opined. “I’ve heard you speak on many subjects.”
I looked at this helpful little fellow and said,
“Fuck off, ya little twerp.”
No, I didn’t say that. That would have made him cry.
“Why spend your days caressing a tomb?” I said. “When was the last time you juggled or told a ribald story about an evening out? Get to know the pleasure of singing to a deaf guy or doing a magic trick for the blind. Both of which, by the way, benefit me greatly because I suck at them.”
He breaks in with an impassioned plea for my betterment, of course, about the seriousness of the world around us and the responsibility for all of us to work at making even the tiniest part of the world better.
I looked at this kid and smiled. I didn’t bother telling him I’m sure my stupid little jokes have been remembered much longer than his impassioned missives. That comedy is little more than truth with a tickle. Instead I pointed out another bald faced truth.
“When you’re sitting down at the coffee shop writing your next philosophical treatise remember that Nietzsche died a broke, lonely, insane man. And at this moment Louis C.K. is getting a blow job.”